


Giving Way

by dirkygoodness



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Anger, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Codependency, Connor spirals, Connor's dad is a homophobic dick, Connor's suicide attempt failed, Drug Use, Evan and Connor are both messed up, Everyone Is Alive, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Panic Attacks, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Spiral - Freeform, Staff manhandles Connor, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, They pick him up when he freaks out, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, anger issues, breakdown - Freeform, but not really, they bond over trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-11-05 23:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11023896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirkygoodness/pseuds/dirkygoodness
Summary: It’s about a month after the cast comes off that he decides he wants to try again.





	1. Drop

**Author's Note:**

> omfg i can't believe i just started another multichapter fic  
> im going to be doing as much research as i can for their time in the mental institution so i hope it's somewhat accurate!!  
> this chapter is supposed to be prologue 
> 
> Sorry for inconveniences, misspellings, and any other mistakes I tried to fix as much as I could.

It’s about a month after the cast comes off that he decides he wants to try again. Maybe it’s because the evidence of the last attempt was finally gone, erased from his body like it’d never happened, and now he’s got an urge to make it come back. Or maybe it’s just because everything is too much and the voice in his head is telling him to try it again. Evan’s not really sure. But it doesn’t really matter, because he’s going to try again anyway. 

There’s a part of him that keeps yelling, telling him not to do it - that if he botches it again, he doesn’t know what part of his body he’ll break this time, and he’s not sure if he can keep hidden what he’s trying again. It was hard enough keeping his attempted suicide from his mom last time. He doesn’t want to know what it’s going to feel like if he messes up again.  _ Then I guess I have to make sure I won’t mess up.  _

Evan’s not sure how to do it though. The tree hadn’t been high enough, and there’s no structures in town that, he thinks, is tall enough to do the trick. He’s too scared of the pain to try and cut his wrists - he’d probably have a panic attack trying, anyway. He can’t take pills because his anxiety medicine is all gone because he was actually  _ taking  _ his medicine, like he was supposed to, and even though it wasn’t helping - at all - he was still taking it. 

Partly because he didn’t want his mom thinking he wasn’t, and worrying, and getting upset which is the last thing he wants. But it’s also because there’s some part of him that still hopes taking them will, somehow, fix him, even though they haven’t been working for about two years now. He just want’s it to end, quickly, easily. Preferably not messy, but that’d be his luck. Always doing  _ something  _ that ended up making a mess, a problem, for someone else. 

_ He  _ was a problem. The air on his skin is cold. Harsh. It’s late fall, so it shouldn’t surprise him, but it does, anyway. Evan absently wonders if he’ll freeze to death. Maybe freezing to death would be best - wouldn’t he just… fall asleep? He doesn’t know. It’s not like he makes a habit of figuring out how  _ best  _ to kill himself, and which ways are the least painful. Evan looks around, his feet moving without his conscious thought, taking him god knows where. 

It’s dark, and he’s heading out of town - he can see the lights if he turns his head behind himself. They’re getting smaller as he walks away, but they seem almost overbearing. Like they’re watching him, like they  _ know  _ what Evan is about to try and do and they just want to watch. Laughing, because  _ finally  _ Evan Hansen is going to be gone from the town - he finally won't be a problem for anyone else and - it’s just  _ lights, Evan.  _ The voice in his head, for a moment, sounds like Jared, and it makes him wince. 

He starts walking faster, head down, racking his mind for  _ anything  _ that he can think of all the way out here that’ll do the trick. He can’t think of anything. All his mind goes to is the fall from the tree, terror, the numbness, and then the relief of hitting the ground. The memory of realizing he wasn’t dead had hit him like a brick, and even though the pain had been overwhelming he’d cried more because he was still alive rather than from the hurt. 

He was scared of himself for a while. Evan had never wanted - no, scratch that. Evan had never  _ tried  _ to kill himself before. And even then, he’d never registered it as wanting to kill himself.  _ I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to exist. Why can’t I do anything right? Just let it end.  _ The thought of  _ killing himself  _ had never went through his mind, but the want - the almost need to do it, had been there. Evan hadn’t even let himself think,  _ wow, I just tried to kill himself,  _ until he was in the hospital, and his arm had been set. 

He shivered, hard, and vaguely realizes he doesn't have a jacket - and that he’s walked himself out to the small line of trees - not a forest, but almost - at the edge of town where he’d broken his arm.  He’d walked himself back here without thinking, and he knew there was a good chance he wasn’t going to be able to kill himself - but he couldn’t stop as he started climbing the tree. The bark hurts his hands, and his arm pseudo-aches from the memory of hitting the ground, but that doesn’t stop him either. 

He gets higher up than he was before. He only slows down when the tree branches thin and whittle out to only the small, short top branches. Evan glances down, and he feels numb - it’s not like last time. Last time he’d been in hysterics, sobbing, and he was almost able to convince himself that he’d fallen because of it, not let go. Almost. Now he stares at the ground through the branches, and the only thing that goes through his head is a quiet, insistent voice.  _ Let go. Push forwards. Drop. _

And he does. 

 

 

He wakes up and his neck hurts so bad he can’t move. It takes him a little while to realize that he’s still alive, and his face scrunches up in disgust. This is exactly what Evan had been afraid of. He’s managed to botch  _ another  _ suicide attempt, and he wants to hit himself. No, he wants to kill himself.  _ God, you can’t even get  _ this  _ right, you’re fucking useless.  _

He lays there, sobbing, for hours, because he can’t move even if he wanted to. It’s not until morning comes that his phone rings - he’d forgotten he’d brought that with him - and he is only just able to get it out of his pocket before it cuts off. 

It’s his mom. 

Evan loses it. Tries to tell her everything, in hiccuped, broken sentences that probably don’t make much sense.  He’s not sure he’s even made a coherent sentence before she tells him she’s coming to get him in a wet, broken tone, so he knows  _ she  _ knows. Even if only on a vague, just barely understanding level. 

It takes her about fifteen minutes to come get him. The ambulance is another ten, and another fifteen to get to the hospital. His mom is in hysterics now, and Evan’s face burns from the tears and shame of causing her to cry. Of not dying. Of  _ trying  _ to die. 

Even though he’s an adult all the questions are directed to his mom - which makes sense, because he’s just tried to kill himself. He’s not really sure the procedure for this kind of thing, but he’s pretty sure it’s not to put the, quote-unquote victim, on the stand. He tries to listen, through his tears, which are starting to dry - but then a nurse moves him into a room and they start checking out his neck. 

The few questions he does get are hard to answer, and his voice comes out barely a whisper and it hurts almost as bad as his neck. It’s hours until he’s able to rest, and he’s laying on the hospital bed - clothed in his new hospital attire - staring up at the ceiling. Evan can still hear his mom outside the room, sobbing, and he wants to get out of the bed and apologize. For not finishing the job, for trying in the first place - both. 

But he doesn’t move. He stopped crying hours ago - though he almost started up when the doctor was inspecting his neck. If he lets himself think too much he’s going to probably work himself back up into a panic, but right now all he can think of is the fact that he’s in a hospital, because he tried to kill himself, and is on twenty-four hour suicide watch. He hates himself for telling his mom.


	2. Room Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gay rises

The physical exam takes much longer than Evan was expecting. Though he should have at least suspected, because of his injuries, that it’d take longer. The nurses thankfully didn’t ask too many questions, which was good, because apparently he’s got bruised vocal chords from the fall. The doctor had told him that it’d hurt to talk for a few days, but because it wasn’t very severe, he’d be fine in no time. ‘Fine’. 

That, along with the fact that Evan  _ also  _ managed to give himself a neck strain, or whiplash, and was having to wear a neck brace.  _ That  _ was probably the worst part of this all. At least when he’d broken his arm people would get a glance, then look away. Now people stared at him like he had something on his face. 

Which, honestly, he probably did because he’ hadn’t looked in the mirror in a while. Everything happened so fast once the twenty-four hour hold was up. First a doctor, not a  _ doctor _ , but a psychologist came in and gave him an evaluation. Asked him things like, ‘How long have you felt this way?’ and ‘Is this the first time you’ve hurt yourself?’. 

Evan’s much less willing to tell this man he tried to kill himself than he’d been with his mother, before, but it’s not like he can keep it a secret. So he tells him, in small, curt answers. He’d been given a prescription of some depression medicine - he doesn’t remember the name - within the hour. Evan feels sick when the nurse handed him the little paper cup with two small pills inside of it. He didn’t  _ want  _ to take the medicine, because it was new, and he’d never taken it before - and honestly, it scared him. 

But he did it anyway because his mom was standing in the doorway, watching him, her eyes still red from her last bout of tears. Evan tries to apologize to her a few times - actually, a lot, really. But his mom either ignores him or brushes it off, gets this looks he can’t quite place. It doesn’t stop him from trying, though. 

It’s not until the next day, when he’s starting to get down from his depressive spiral and has started to feel full of guilt and shame, does someone come to inform him that he’s being recommended a facility. He can chose which one, but apparently some behind the scenes action had taken place, and he’s been court ordered into immediate help. 

Evan tries not to think about how much money his mom is spending on him for all of this. Really, he’d be fine, just let him go home.  _ Maybe finish what he started.  _ They’d even taken his shoes, giving him a pair of white velcro sneakers. They bit unpleasantly against his heels. 

He startles when, suddenly, there’s a nurse directly in front of him. She’s holding a little slip of paper, smiling in that sort of pitying look hospital attendants always have, waiting for him to take it from her. He blinks, hesitating for a moment, before he grabs it. It’s got his name on it, along with a room number. He looks back up at her, suddenly terrified that he’s going to be sent off into this strange, new place alone, having to fend for himself. Instead of putting his head on the chopping block, though, the nurse gestures to the door. 

“Keep that on you so you don’t forget your room. I always find it helps the other patients. If you’d come this way, to the rooms?” She’s got a sweet kind of voice, but for some reason it makes Evan just the more unsettled. Evan moves, following the woman as she leads him silently. He messes with the hem of his shirt, looking anywhere but at the few people they pass on their way. The floor’s a sort of darkened, worn down egg white. 

“We’ll bring you your things once they’ve gone through processing. You can get settled in the meantime, introduce yourself. Tomorrow Doctor Reighley will see you to tell you times and schedules, and for your first session. We hope you feel at home here.” She pauses, blinking, mouth opening in an ‘o’ as she gasps softly. 

“I almost forgot! The medicine is handed out in the lounge, which is just down that hall, first door on the left, and you’ll pick your medicine up every morning, starting tomorrow.” And with that, and a not unkind goodbye, Evan is left alone in front of his room. 

There’s a long moment where he just stands there, staring at the spot the nurse had been a moment ago. His entire being feels tired, worn down. His head throbs dully, neck aching. And it’s going to stay that way, because he’s not allowed more than two ibuprofen for the pain. They don’t want him trying to kill himself with it. Evan closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath, steadying himself.  _ He can do this.    _

Finally he turns to the door, and reads the number on it - just to be sure. It matches,  _ of course it does, because it’s  _ your  _ room, Evan. Nurses are trained and paid to do it right. You had no hand in this, you couldn’t have messed up.  _ He checks the number three more times, before very gently and slowly, opening the door. The room is sparse, and it’s walls are a light shade of grey, with dark gray carpet. One side of the room is empty, so he assumes that it’s his, the bed not set up yet. 

The blankets and sheets sit at the end of the bed. The other side of the room  _ does  _ look occupied, just, not at the second. The bed is unkept, pillow halfway falling off, and the nightstand beside the bed has a few candy wrappers and four books piled haphazardly on it. Evan looks around, even though it’s not like anyone could be hiding in here.The room doesn’t have a closet, but there’s two small, plastic dressers at the end of each bed. On occupied side of the room, however, the dresser is a mess. 

The clothes are almost falling out of the dresser, one of the drawers is open. A shirt is spilling down out of it, halfway under the bed.. He shuffles over to his side, and sits down on the bed. It squeaks and Evan jumps, standing back up and giving the bed a  _ look _ like it’d just betrayed him. 

Which it just had. He gives it another go, and this time the bed only gives a small whine as he sits. He blinks, eyes scanning over the things in the room. This is it. This is his life now. Well, for awhile, at least. 

He doesn’t know when he’ll be released - honestly, if ever. He knows that it all depends on his conversations with Doc. Reighley, the head psychiatrist here at the facility. Because he’d been court instructed to go here, he can’t check himself out, and has to pass some kind of exam before he can leave. To make sure he doesn’t want to kill himself anymore. And he doesn’t! Well, not at the moment, but that’s how depression works - that’s what the other psychologist told him. The amount, the severity, comes and goes. Some days are great, most are manageable, and others are terrible. 

He wonders if there’s a type of letter to write for depression therapy. He’s never had therapy for that before - and he wonders if it’s much different. Probably. Or maybe not. He doesn’t know. Evan wishes there were a window in their room. He wants to look outside, give himself something to  _ do  _ because he’s got nothing. 

Sure, he could get up and look around but. Ugh, just. No. And all his things, the two books and the notebook and pencil he’d brought with him, are with his things through processing.  He’s not even sure they’ll clear and be allowed in, but he wanted to at least try.

“What the fuck?” An almost bored voice cracks from the doorway, and Evan jumps so hard he manages to hit his heel up against the edge of the bed. He scrambles to stand up, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, because  _ oh god, is this his roommate?  _

He hopes he hasn’t done something wrong. Maybe the side of the room he was on was this guys, maybe he was using the other side as his storage? Maybe this  _ wasn’t  _ his room, maybe he  _ had  _ managed to mess things up. He looks at the ground, hard. 

“S-Sorry, I, uhm - uhm, I-. The n-nurse told me this was my room, so I came here.” He winces, forcing himself to stop before he goes on a tirade and really hurts his throat - and his almost non-existent pride. 

“I know the drill,  _ Hansen _ , I’ve done it -” How did he know…? “- why the  _ fuck  _ are you here? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, climbing a tree or something. Whatever it is you’re into.” The other’s voice is sharp, unkind - but there’s a twinge of something else too, but he can’t quite place the emotion. Evan winces, just a little bit! At the mention of trees. He absently hopes he’s not ruined nature for himself. And he turns his head up carefully, at an angle so he can easily turn back down and - 

“ _ C-Connor? _ ” Evan gets out, louder than before - but still not  _ very  _ loud, obviously.  Connor, Connor Murphy, is standing there, hands in his pockets, a semi-bored, angry look to his face as he stares intently at Evan. 

The same Connor Murphy who, no more than a month and a half ago, had shoved Evan, signed his cast, gotten angry again, and tried to kill himself. That was the first time Evan considered killing himself again, because  _ he’d  _ made Connor do that. With the reminder comes unwanted guilt, leaving him unsettled and more nervous than before.  He’d made him mad, and upset him enough for him to do it and he could have  _ died  _ and - and Connor is right here, alive, and fine. Well, not fine, because you aren’t fine if you’re in here. 

But, not dead, so Evan shuts down that line of thought before it derails and ends up doing some damage.  _ Has he been in here this whole time? Was he put in here the same way Evan was?  _ Evan thinks, blinking owlishly at Connor’s plain white shoes. He hears a snort from Connor, and he almost looks up.  _ Almost.  _

“No shit.” He hisses, moving past Evan to his own bed, flopping down on it heavily. His bed screeches in protest, and Evan turns slightly towards him. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he turns his gaze to look at Connor. 

Who’s staring right back at him. 

Evan feels a sick, nervous wave pass through his stomach. It tries to claw it’s way up his throat, but he swallows it back down, looking over Connor’s shoulder. They stay like that for a little while longer, before Connor’s eyes trail down to the brace at Evan’s neck. 

“Why is it every time I see you you’ve hurt some part of your body.” His tone is bored, and the question feels rhetorical, but Evan would normally reply anyway. He tries to, but his throat hurts, and he remembers he’s not supposed to talk much, so he stops himself “You didn’t answer my question, earlier.” 

“Hmm?” Evan asks, mind blanking as he tries to remember.  _ He was asked a question? What was it? God this is awkward.    _

“Why are you here? You already know why I’m here, I doubt anyone in my family even tried to keep this a secret.” Connor lifts one of his arms, which Evan only  _ just now _ notices have bandages wrapped around them. Evan quickly looks away from it, and his arm aches. “Connor Murphy, suicidal nutcase. That doesn’t explain you, though. I get me, but you’re, like, weird - not crazy. So, why’re you here?”  He seems… surprisingly calm. Evan wonders what kind of medication they have him on. 

“I’m - I don’t, see, I don’t see how that’s - how that’s your b-business.” He asks, face flushing with shame at the reminder.  _ He probably thinks you’re a weirdo. He probably already  _ knows  _ why you’re in here, he’s just testing you. It’s not that hard to figure out why someone is in one of these places. He just wants you to hurt, wants to see you struggle to admit you’re insane enough to try and kill yourself -  _ Connor scoffs, glaring hard at Evan now.

“Whatever. Just stay on your side of the room. And don’t touch my shit.” Evan nods jerkily, moving back to his bed and sitting. He’s clenching his fists so hard he thinks they might start bleeding. 

It takes Evan about half an hour to set his bed up. Connor’s presence was stressing him out a ridiculous amount, and by the time he’s done his face was flushed a dark red and he was sweating.  Connor didn’t say anything to him, but his eyes did bore into the back of Evan’s head. Which made him even  _ more  _ stressed out, which freaked him out, and it was just downhill from there. 

He stayed in his room for the remainder of the evening, Connor only leaving twice - probably to go to the bathroom, or something. Evidently Evan had come after dinner and before lights-out, so he luckily didn’t have to get up to go eat. He’d had hospital jello, he’s fine. 

It does startle him when a voice cracks over the PA system, telling him that lights out was in ten minutes. Evan wanted to change clothes, because that meant it was time for bed, but he didn’t have his clothes yet and he didn’t know where the bathrooms were - and it wasn’t like he was going to change with Connor there. And, anyway, Connor didn’t change out of his clothes. 

He just tossed a book he’d been reading onto the nightstand, lying down on top of his covers, back to Evan. Evan sits there, fidgeting, picking at the hem of his shirt until the lights click off and he’s dropped into inky blackness. He keeps sitting up for a bit, but finally he lies down under the covers. It takes him a while to fall asleep - the brace isn’t doing him any favors, and while he normally sleeps on his side, the damn thing is making that almost impossible. 

He eventually falls asleep on his back, but before he does he stares at the ceiling for about fifteen minutes. He feels almost empty, and he can hear Connor breathing, and he once again wishes he’d succeeded.


	3. Scheduled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> breakfast, with a side of tension 
> 
> connor pov coming next

By the time Evan wakes up Connor is gone. The pile of clothes on - around? - his dresser has shifted, and Evan guesses he’d changed. Sometime in the night, Evan had rolled over onto his side, and he winces in pain as he sits up. On Evan’s own dresser there’s a stack of clothes, neatly folded - all of them a shade of white or grey.

He carefully puts them away, leaving out a set of clothes for that day.The doors have big, long windows in them so Evan tucks himself up into a corner out of view and quickly changes. It’s a pair of sweatpants similar to Connor’s, but his shirt is darker than his had been. The sleeves are short, and Evan suspects all their shirts are t-shirts. He puts the dirty clothes in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

He takes about twenty minutes talking himself up enough to get out of the room, and when he does he walks glacially slow towards the lounge. He needed to get his medicine, and hopefully, he’d not missed it. Though he’s pretty sure someone would have come to get him if he’d slept in. As he passes the doors, the other rooms, and he doesn’t see anyone. They’re probably all in the lounge. Or, something. It’s not like Evan is very clear about all of this.

All he knows is that he’s got to get his medicine and see the psychiatrist. When he spots the lounge room, he stops in his tracks, biting his lip. He can hear people talking indistinctly, loudly, and he feels sick. It’s worse than whenever he went to school, because he doesn’t recognize any of these faces, and he’s never been here before. Evan rubs his arm, bouncing a little where he stands, trying to make himself go in. He doesn’t. Not until someone else comes down the hall, giving him a weird look, before going in themselves.

Evan closes his eyes, takes a breath, then he opens the door himself and goes in. The room is much different from the rest of the facility he’s seen, but it’s all of the same vein. There are grey couches - two of them,  and a chair, a chess set in the corner, and a piano in the middle, backed against the wall. The two windows are small, and they’re barred from the inside. Probably so nobody tries to jump. There are at least twenty people scattered around the room, probably more.

Evan finds himself scanning for Connor, for a familiar face, and he gets an odd, uncomfortable feeling at the thought of using practically a stranger to ground himself. He doesn’t see Connor, at first, but then he spots his signature dark mop of hair at the back of the room. He’s sitting in a chair - no, he’s sprawled in the chair, staring at the ceiling. Nobody sits near him, and honestly, they look like they’re avoiding him, and Evan looks away.

Takes a deep breath, lets it out. _Okay. You can do this._ He spots a seat near where he’s standing, separated from the other people somewhat, and he shuffles over there and sits down carefully. He wants to look, to scan the faces around him, but he keeps his head down - memorizing the cracks in the floor. He’s not really sure how long he sits there by himself, but thankfully nobody comes over to talk to him.

Part of him wishes someone would - but another part tells him that he’s useless and doesn’t deserve it. He shivers. _Breathe._ Evan rubs his arm again. It’d been a nervous habit before, but after he’d broken his arm he does it almost constantly. It doesn’t hurt - unless he thinks too much and works himself into making it hurt by thinking it does. He doesn’t even move until a nurse comes out, clearing her throat loudly.

“Come get your medicine!” She says, and it’s someone else than yesterday. Her voice is sharper, less friendly. When Evan looks up he sees a cart, and a man standing behind it. He’s got a clipboard, checking it before filling small cups with medicine.

He hands them to the first person who comes up with a small paper cup of water, and again to the next person - rinse repeat. Evan waits until there’s a sizable line before standing up and moving over with the rest of them. The girl in front of him is singing to herself, a song Evan doesn’t recognize, and the guy behind him keeps tapping his food. It makes the back of Evan’s neck itch, but he can’t scratch it so instead he wrings his hands in his shirt so hard he feels some of the threading give way.

When it’s his turn the man asks for his name, before once again checking his list. Evan gets move medicine than everyone else he’s seen - his depression, anxiety, and pain medication gets dropped into the little cup. Taking it and the small cup of water, and takes a minute to swallow them all, and he can tell a few people behind him are getting antsy. When he’s finally done he fumbles for a moment, not sure where to dispose of the two cups in his hand.

“U-Uhm…” He starts, sheepishly, before the attendant takes pity on him and gently removes the cups from his overbearing grip. Evan laughs awkwardly, staying there a second longer before he turns back around and heads to his spot. Instead of sitting, though, he gives his chair a hard look.

He’s not sure if he’s supposed to ask someone where he’s supposed to go, or if someone is going to come collect him? Or if he’s going to have to figure it out on his own, which is a bad idea for anyone - let alone him. He’s bad with this sort of thing, and it’s only the start of his second day here - he’s bound to get lost. And getting lost means panicking, and having to talk to someone to figure out where he’s supposed to go, and he doesn’t want to do that. He shouldn’t, either, because of his throat and his vocal chords - and _oh god, is he breathing right now? He can’t tell. What if he has a panic attack in front of all these people, what’ll they think? He can’t even stand to be in a room with other people without flipping his shit, and -_

“Connor Murphy, medicine!” The sharp cut of the nurse’s voice startles him out of his impending panic, and he blinks, looking over at her. She looks bored, hand on her hip, giving a death stare in Connor’s general direction.

When he looks at Connor he’s giving an equally bored look in response, blinking lazily. After a moment Connor stands and in a sort of twitching motion moves to get his medicine. _Okay, breathe. You’re fine._

“Mr. Hansen?” Someone says behind him and his attempts at calming down go out the window as he spins around, a painfully loud squeak escaping his throat. A man stands before him, blinking startled at the noise Evan had made before he smiles softly.

“You’ve got an appointment with Doc. Reighley. I’m here to show you to his office.”

“O-Oh,” Evan says. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, turning his head to avoid eye contact. “Oka - okay.” He once again follows a nurse down the halls, watching his feet move as he walks. He nearly runs into the poor man when he stops, Evan apologizing profusely.

The doctor is giving him a soft, strangely understanding look. He almost looks like he wants to pat Evan on the shoulder - but thankfully he doesn’t, probably knows better. Evan can’t imagine something like that going over well in a place like this. The nurse turns to the door, opening it for Evan, and gesturing him inside. Cool air hits Evan hard, and he blinks, startled.

He can instantly tell the difference between this room and the rest of the place. The walls are a light brown, the carpet a soft blue, and there are bookshelves and a desk, and a lounge chair, and - and an older man with light grey hair smiling at him. Evan averts his gaze, stepping inside. The door shuts behind him with a thunk, causing him to wince.

“Hello, Evan - may I call you Evan? It’s nice to finally meet you. If you’ll have a seat?” He gestures to the lounge chair, waiting to speak again until Evan has sat down. “Now, I know all of this must seem very frightening to you. New place, new rules - new faces! But I want to assure you, you have nothing to worry about. I think you’ll be quite comfortable here. Your mental and physical well beings are our top priority.” He pauses as if to let Evan talk if he wants. He doesn’t. Doc. Reighley doesn’t seem phased, continuing.

“Now, let’s get to the scheduling. Normally on Mondays, we have breakfast around this time, but it Tuesday, so it’s individual sessions until breakfast! Tuesdays you’ve got art than group therapy, followed by---” Evan listens as he explains his schedules in exact detail, where the rooms are, even handing Evan a paper with the schedule on it, so he won't forget. Evan briefly worries that having paper is against the rules, but then he reminds himself that this is the head guy giving it to him. It’s _fine._ The next thing the doctor hands him are his books, but he doesn’t get his pencils or notebook.

“I’m afraid you’re pencils and notebook didn’t pass. The pencils are always a no, and the notebook had metal. However -” He hands Evan an entirely paper notebook, along with a marker, smiling. “- I can offer you these instead.” Evan takes them with a tiny nod, putting them with his stack he’s accumulated on his lap.

“Now. This is a bit of a mood change, but now it’s time to get our first session out of the way. All guests here have their first one with me. I see that the doctor who recommended you here diagnosed you with depression?” Evan nods. “And I understand it that you tried to take your own life. That’s a very serious issue, Mr. Hansen. I’d like to know, do you consider yourself a threat?”

“E-Excuse me?” Evan squeaks out. Reighley doesn’t look phased, only nodding for him to continue on. Evan’s mouth opens for a moment, flounders then shuts it again.

“A threat. To yourself, or others. Do you consider yourself to be one?”

“Uhm, n-not really?” He replies. _Really? You tried to kill yourself -_ twice.

“Mhm.” Doc. Reighley hums, writing something down on a clipboard that Evan has only just now noticed.

“Uhm, what - what’s that? What are- you, what’re you writing?” Panic is clawing up against Evan’s throat again. The doctor smiles, waving his hand.

“Nothing to worry about, Evan. I’m just documenting our conversation.” Evan swallows, hard.

 

 

 

 

Evan feels worse than after a panic attack when he leaves Reighley’s office. The doctor had more or less interrogated him, made a few comments, but mostly asked Evan how he felt. Which should really have been evident from him jumping out of a tree. It’s - whatever. He rubs his chin, wincing. His throat feels like shit, too, and his neck is aching. The ibuprofen is doing hardly anything to help. Evan goes to his - and Connor’s - room, dropping his stuff off on his nightstand. He gives a glance at the schedule.

Breakfast is up next - room C12, same hallway as the lounge. He folds the schedule up and puts it into his pocket, making his way back in that direction. He glances at a clock on his way - nine-thirty a.m. He’d been in the doctor’s office for an hour. He guesses he hadn’t gotten up as late as he’d expected. He ends up running into a few other people as he heads to the dining area, walking a little behind them. It makes it easier, at least, when he entered the cafeteria.

Evan wants to hide behind someone - it’s how he keeps himself out of people’s line of sight. They’re handing out trays of food, and there’s only a short line - most people are sitting already. They’re giving out eggs, hash browns, and peach slices - the smell makes Evan’s nose wrinkle, but his stomach grumbles in distress, so he doesn’t turn the food down. He’s a little startled when the only utensil is a plastic spoon, but he doesn’t say anything.

It’ll be hard, but he can make due. Probably. Now where to sit. The tables are round, not very large but not tiny, either. There are two tables that have seats open that are away from the throng of people. One of them has three girls sitting at it, and the other is empty, so he decides on that one. Only when he’s sitting does he realize he’s forgotten to get something to drink - there are cups at the end of the line that he’d missed, and he bites his lip.

Evan wants to go get a glass, but he doesn’t want anyone knowing he’d forgotten. He ignores the thirst, putting all his attention on his food. The eggs are dry, the hash browns a little too greasy, the peaches are the only really edible thing there. He finishes them off fast, then goes to picking at the eggs. He tunes the sounds of other people talking until it’s a low hum in the back of his head. _God,_ Evan wants to go outside.

Normally he sits outside for the first few hours of the morning - before heading off to school - and it makes him feel off, not being able to now. Or, maybe, he just wants to find the tallest tree he can to try again. Or just look at a tree, because he doesn’t see a tree and want to jump constantly, now. Sure, he sometimes considered it and as of late had been focusing on it, but he didn’t constantly try it. Or think it. Obviously. He still likes nature. He still thinks trees are pretty and cool, and all that. Just - they’re pretty cool to jump out of, too…

Suddenly there’s a crash beside him and Evan startles so bad he almost falls out of his chair, hand jerking so hard eggs get tossed across the table. He flushes with embarrassment, his stomach doing an unpleasant flip. When he turns to the source of the noise he’s shocked to see Connor - again - at the table, sitting down beside him. Connor turns, looking at him, eyebrows raising.

“What?”

“O-Oh, uhm, just - I just. W-Why are you - why’d you, you know, sit. Here, beside - m-me, beside me, here.” Evan stutters out pulling his shirt down over his stomach more, trying to cover himself. Connor shoves a spoonful of hash browns into his mouth.

“You’re the one who sat at my table,” Connor says, a matter of factly, like it’s common knowledge, and Evan wants the ground to swallow him.

“O-Oh.” He can’t believe he did that. “Sorry.” Though, as guilty he feels everytime he sees Connor, he supposes it’s not as bad as having to meet a new person. He takes another bite of the eggs, grimacing at the taste.

He wonders why no one is sitting by them. Why everyone seemed to be avoiding Connor in the lounge. Had he done something to make them hate him? Or, afraid of him, because he doesn't see Connor going out of his way to make people dislike him more than they already do. _Okay, projecting much?_

Evan rubs his arm again, wrapping it around his waist. _He hopes he isn’t making Connor uncomfortable. He probably is. Connor has enough shit to deal with, let alone Evan piling up more on that. He must think I’m a loser. Sitting alone - trying to sit alone, but sitting at his table instead._ He starts tapping his foot.

_He was so mean before, with his reply. It’d been harsh - too harsh, it was mean. He shouldn’t have told Connor it wasn’t his business. He’d told - shown? - Evan why he was here. Evan could have done the same. But he’d gotten defensive because he doesn’t want to broadcast that he’s suicidal. He knows other people here are, but even they probably think he’s a creep for doing it._

“For the love of god,” Connor hisses, turning to glare at Evan. Evan jumps. “If you don’t stop shaking your leg, I’m going to cut it off.” Evan blanches, because _oh god, Connor Murphy wants to cut his leg off. Sweet jesus._

“S-Sorry, I’m - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - to do that. I - sorry, really, I can just - you don’t have to take my leg off, so - ”

“Calm down, it - it was a joke, christ. I’m not _actually_ going to cut your damn leg off.” He casts a sidelong glance at Evan. “You really think I’d do that?” Connor’s voice darkens suddenly, and Evan drops his fork in his haste to wave Connor’s fears away.

“No - no, I don’t, obviously. That’s j-just, it’s just crazy, to do that, and you’re not c-crazy, so, uhm, yeah.” Evan gets out, biting his lip. Connor’s eyes narrow, and for a moment Evan think’s he’s going to keep asking but instead, he takes another bite of his food.

“What’s up with your voice?” He asks voice muffled around the food. Evan intertwines his hands together, shrugging.

“I - I bruised, uhm, my vocal chords?”

“Ew,” Connor says, looking physically pained as he grimaces. He scratches at his bandages, and Evan purposefully keeps his eyes away from them. Mostly. He bites his thumb, glancing at Connor out of the side of his eye.

“Uh, if you - you don’t have to a-answer, obviously, but uhm, if it’s okay to ask. Uh. Why isn’t - why doesn’t anyone s-sit here? W-With us? There’s, there’s plenty o-of, room, ya’know?” He swears he hears Connor laugh.

“It’s probably because when I first got here I punched a nurse in the mouth and knocked one of her teeth loose.”

“ _Uhm?_ ” Evan breathes out a startled gasp, looking around the room. Some people are staring at them now, and Connor snorts.

“I was high, and they were trying to force me to take pills, because I was refusing it, so I punched the person _with_ the pills.” He frowns. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, I don’t have to explain myself. I punched a nurse. Does that make you afraid of me now, _huh?_ Are you going to run away and _cry?_ ” Connor is getting up in his face now, his voice rising, and Evan backs away but doesn’t get up, so he ends halfway out of his seat from leaning back so far. _Yeah, it scares him. Violence_ always _scared him. But…_

“No.” He says, quietly. Connor blinks, pulling back. He seems genuinely shocked, then confused, then annoyed.

“Oh.”

They eat the rest of breakfast in silence.


	4. Connor Was Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> connor doesn't know how to give a compliment without sounding like a dick

Connor leaves before Evan does. It’s awkward enough sitting there with him while he eats, so he doesn’t let himself make it any worse. Honestly, all of this feels weird. He hardly knew Evan - the few instances they’d talked before hadn’t really… gone over well _._ He could be a dick sometimes - _sometimes_ , he snorts, dropping his tray down for the begrudged staff member to clean. _He was a dick_ all _the time._ That’s what all of _this_ was for, being in here.

Well, no, actually. He was here because he hadn’t cut his wrists deep enough and Zoe had found him before he’d been able to die. He’d been so close too, his consciousness had been fading and he could almost feel himself slipping. Then Zoe had come into his room to see if he had her hairbrush, because her’s was missing, and, ‘I swear to god, Connor, if you took it -’. Connor picks at the edge of the bandage, sighing.

The doctor told him he needed to ‘keep thoughts like that’ out of his head. So, for once, Connor was trying. It wasn’t _working_ , he still wanted to kill himself, but the least he could do is humor the man. It’s not like he’s got much else to do in here. Besides read. Which he’d done already, more than once. He can almost recite the prologue of one of his books by heart now. Connor can’t actually remember the number, but he’s re-read the books far too many times.

It’s stupid, to think that he can make due with _four fucking books_ for however long it is he’ll be in here. But his parents hadn’t brought him anything else besides that and a change of clothes. They could bring more, but that’d mean they would have to visit, god forbid. How horrible to visit your suicidal son in the mental hospital _you_ shipped him off too! Well, actually - okay, yeah, Connor get’s it. Who in their right mind would want to visit him?

Connor makes his way towards the art room, glaring at people who look at him along the way. He’s almost glad he’d punched the nurse, because now people - for the most part - leave him alone. Similar to the printer in school. _But it was still a shitty thing to do. She was trying to_ help _you._

Art therapy is one of the stupidest things in this place, on par with music therapy. They give you clay, or paper and markers, or _sometimes_ puzzles! And expect you to ‘express your feelings’ through it. Connor would rather watch water boil than do it, but oh no! You can’t get out of a therapy session, everything has to be _perfect. ‘_

Because it’s very important to have a good, solid schedule to stick to,’ he hears Reighley say, voice thick and proud. _God,_ Connor hated him. He was so pompous and full of himself. Having a degree didn’t make you the greatest mind there was. The guy probably had some _confidence issues_ if he put himself in a place of power over a bunch of kids. Connor smirks to himself, pushing the art room door open.

There’s not a lot of people here yet, so it’s not hard to pick somewhere to sit. He’s up against the back wall, next to one of the only relatively large windows in the building. He supposes they put it here because it helps with ‘artistic inspiration’ or whatever the fuck. He drops down into the chair, kicking his legs up on the table. The Artistic Nurse gives him a look, but she doesn’t say anything. She’d gotten over him doing that after the first twelve times he’d done it, to no avail on her part. It’s not like the other ‘inmates’ care, none of them sit next to him.

“Hi, Connor!” Well, usually. He turns his head, already exhausted. It’s Tiffany. A very enthusiastic blond who almost always tries to talk to him when she’s not distracted by her ‘friends’. She’s standing over him, waving for some fucking reason, and grinning like an idiot. Connor grimaces.

“What do you want?” He barks, tipping his chair back so it rests only on two legs. Tiffany giggles, flicking hair off her shoulder.

“Oh, nothing really! I just saw the new kid sit with you. What’s that all about?” She rests her hand on the table next to Connor’s foot and he has to resist the urge to kick her. He doesn’t _want_ to hurt people, but Tiffany is annoying and impervious to hints. Hell, she doesn’t even get that it when Connor specifically says _leave me alone._

“He’s from my school.” Connor says, deciding answering her question is the quickest way to get her to go away. It doesn’t work.

“ _Really?_ That’s so cool! Are you two friends? You seem like friends! Do you know what’s up with his neck? I wonder if he’s okay?” Connor growls.

“Yes, I’m not his friend, I have no idea, and frankly I don’t care. Now leave me alone.” He’s trying for harsh but comes off more annoyed, and Tiffany only looks upset for about a second before she giggles again. Connor frowns.

“Aw, well ok _ay,_ if you _insist!_ ” Tiffany pats Connor’s leg and Connor flinches away from it, nausea blooming in his stomach as she turns on her heel and goes to sit down across the room. He glares in her direction, taking his feet off the table.

He’s got a sudden feeling people are staring at him, so he crosses his arms, successfully hiding his bandages from sight. A few more people file into the room, the Artistic Nurse talking to a few of them in her sugar coated voice about something and whatever.

Connor looks out the window, staring at the street. There’s a few cars passing, but with how early in the morning it is it’s not a lot. Kids are already at school, anyone who needs to work is still sleeping. He feels the urge for a smoke rise and he scratches at his arms. No one in their right mind would be doing arts and crafts at - he looks at the clock- ten a.m. Ugh. That’s the kind of shit his parents would do. _His parents._ Why can’t he stop thinking about them today? They’re the _last_ thing he wants to think about. 

There’s a sudden, painful sounding thump at the door and Connor turns to see Evan once again. He’s holding his elbow, eyes wet with unshed tears, and _oh my god,_ he just ran into the wall. Connor fights back the laugh that tries to surface, running a hand over his face.

Evan apologizes to Artistic Nurse, than to a kid that’s close to him for no reason, and once again to the nurse. Connor almost feels sorry for him as he shuffles around the long table to get to the side Connor’s on.

He turns his head up to see where he’s going and their eyes lock. Connor feels himself flush at being caught staring, but instead of looking away he cocks an eyebrow, daring Evan to say anything. Evan, of course, doesn’t, and shuffles his way closer. He stops about three feet away, looks around. There’s not a spot where he’s standing. He shuffles closer. There _is_ a spot here, but he just stares at it for a long moment. Evan comes closer once again. _Is he trying to…_ yep.

Evan comes to a final stop in front of Connor, looking sheepishly at him for a moment. _God dammit. Whatever._ Evan doesn’t sit, and keeps giving Connor hesitant glances like he’s trying to ask permission. Connor rolls his eyes and scoots over on the bench.

“Just sit the fuck down, Hansen.” He says, and Evan instantly complies, sitting down with about three hand widths apart from him.

“Sorry.” Evan apologizes, christ. This guy apologizes for _everything_ , doesn’t he? Maybe that’s why he’s here. Or, more specifically, he’s here because his very clear complete lack of social skills. _Or maybe it’s none of your fucking business and you should stop trying to guess this shit._

Connor frowns and turns, dropping his head against the table with a grunt. Evan jumps when he does, and Connor ignores him. The Artistic Nurse is starting to hand out - it’s marker and paper day! Lovely. She’s got a box of markers for people to pick from, and she slowly makes her way down the line. Connor watches her get closer, ignoring the wave he gets from Tiffany as his eyes pass over her. Finally she’s at their spot, and Connor sits up slightly. Evan hesitates, looking at the box then at her, then back at the box. His hand hovers over it and he bites his lip.

“Jesus.” Connor groans as he rolls his eyes. He takes pity on Evan, swatting his hand away and grabbing the first two black markers he can find. One of them is a fine tipped sharpie and the other is a fat, unlabeled marker. He keeps the unlabeled one for himself, slapping the other in front of Evan a little bit harshly.

The nurse gives Connor a _look_ and Connor sticks his tongue out at her, earning a sneer. She drops two pieces of paper haphazardly before them both, muttering under her breath as she moves to the next person. Connor rolls his eyes, uncapping his marker. He starts doodling random shit, not really paying attention. Beside him Evan is drawing too, but he doesn’t look to see what. He puts all his attention into drawing the creepiest smiley face he can muster up.

It takes him a few tries to get it right, but in the end he ends up with two very detailed eyes and a derpy looking mouth. He smirks. Connor adds a few other things to the picture too, but in the ends just ends up filling the page with a bunch of dicks. It’s almost funny, until he hear his father’s voice in his head, suddenly. He pauses.

_No son of mine is going to be drawing - drawing_ this _like some kind of fag!_ Connor grits his teeth and starts aggressively scribbling out what he’s just drawn. _What do you think you’re doing, acting like this? Do you want people to start thinking you like other men? I swear to god, Connor Murphy, if you even consider being like that so help me, I will find someone to fix it. I won’t have a homo as a child._ The page rips and Connor blinks, startled by it.

His smiley face is the only thing that stands unscratched out, but it’s been ripped in half.He glares at the page, tossing the marker away from himself as he grabs the paper, balling it up as small as he can. He drops it on the table when he’s done, his head following with it. Connor closes his eyes, gripping his arm hard. The pain brings him back, a little, and after a moment he’s calmed himself down enough that he tilts his head back up. No one noticed his little tantrum, thank god, so he smashes the crumpled ball flat against his fist.

He glances over at Evan and blinks in surprise. Evan’s drawn a fairly good looking tree across the entire page. It’s… not that bad, really. Sure, it’s no masterpiece, but it’s far better than anything Connor’s ever drawn. He leans over, resting against one of his arms as he peeks over Evan’s shoulder to watch.

He’s shading it now, carefully. He’s focusing so hard he doesn’t even notice Connor. It’s funny, and he has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. _Wonder what the look on his face will be when he notices._ He just sits there, watching Evan draw until the other is finished. Evan sighs, sits up but when he does he bumps into Connor and he jumps and gasps. Connor snorts, a smile splitting - unwarranted - across his face.

“Connor! W-Were, you, uhm, were you w-watching me draw - draw?” Evan asks like he’s been scandalized, which only makes Connor’s smile grow.

“For a while, yeah. Nice tree.” He says and it comes across like somewhat of a complement, thankfully. Evan flushes bright red and Connor covers his mouth again to hide his smile. He doesn’t want to be entirely rude.

“Uh, uhm, thank - thanks, I - it’s, I like trees.”

“You _like_ trees?” The question comes out with a little laugh, and Evan looks like he’s been slapped. _Shit. Nice going Connor, you’ve probably just somehow insulted the guy. Because that’s all you’re fucking good for. Can’t do_ anything _right, can you? Should just rip your arms open again -_ Connor’s smile falls.

“That’s - cool. Your trees, I guess. It’s well done. Better than anything I could have done, so.” Connor says quickly, trying to cover up his mistake, and Evan starts picking at his fingernails, shrugging.

“It - it’s okay, I guess.” Evan glances at him for a second. It’s almost an endearing trait. “Uhm, Connor, uh - do, do you happen? Happen to know where, the uh, b-bathrooms are?”

Oh. _  
_

“Yeah, they’re - down the second hall, two big open doorways. They’re marked so it’s pretty hard to miss them.” He gets out, rubbing the back of his neck. Evan thanks him before standing up jerkily and walk-running out the door. Connor puts his hand over his eyes.

_God, I can’t believe he didn’t know where the bathroom was. I hope to god he hasn’t been holding that for hours. Jesus christ._

Out of the corner of his eye Connor sees the tree again, and he drops his hand to get another look at it. It really is good. Connor smirks. He turns back around, grabbing his own marker, before grabbing Evan’s drawing. In a free space on the page he writes, ‘Connor was here’, grinning to himself as he finishes. He gives a look to his own work of art, before once again resting his head on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in addition! here's the picture Evan was drawing!
> 
> http://orig10.deviantart.net/c85b/f/2017/151/4/d/tree_by_dirkygoodness-dbb1hfk.png
> 
> and Connor's rendition ;3
> 
> http://orig05.deviantart.net/da89/f/2017/151/7/e/tree_by_dirkygoodness-dbb1hww.png
> 
> both drawn by me!!


	5. Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let's play the 'How Many Times Can Connor Hate Himself In One Day' game
> 
>  
> 
> alternatively, 'Evan Doesn't Know How To Not Apologize, And Connor Has Anger Issues'

Connor only realizes he’s drifted off when he jerks in his sleep, waking himself up. He blinks, startled, looking around the room. He’s confused for a moment, doesn’t recognize his surroundings and it leaves him suddenly panicked, sitting upright. What - where was he -?  
  
Oh. Right.  
  
As the realization dawns on Connor a sickened, dark feeling grows in the pit of his stomach and he hunches his shoulders, head tilted down.  
  
He’d almost been able to forget where he was for a moment there, and he wishes as hard as he can that it was true. But… Connor doesn’t know what he’d do if he were out. Would his family even let him back in the house after what he did? Or would they kick him out? He wouldn’t put it past them. _Just throw the psychopath out onto the streets, or toss him in an asylum - let him be somebody else's problem. It’s not like they’ve got some kind of moral obligation to him, like, say, if he were their_ son.  
  
Connor shakes his head. He really should stop thinking about his family today - but, at this point, he’s pretty sure it’s just going to be _one of those days,_ and he hopes he can get through it without a breakdown. That’d be just his fucking luck, just break down in the fucking _art_ room. What is he, fucking _Van Gogh_ or some bullshit? He mentally hits himself. He _cannot_ believe he just referenced a fucking _famous artist._ God, this place was corrupting him faster than he was expecting it to. _He just wants out, already._  
  
His eyes scan over the other occupants in the room, and he realizes that they’re already packing up their shit, Artistic Nurse coming around and taking markers from everyone and throwing out any unwanted art. Huh.  
  
He hadn’t expected to sleep through the entire hour - hell, he hadn’t expected to sleep at all really, but he supposes that’s his horrible sleep patterns and insomnia creeping up on him. He turns his head towards where Evan was sitting before he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, and Connor blinks. Evan’s not back yet and his drawing just sits there, untouched.  
  
Evan’s… been in the bathroom for an hour. What on _earth_ is he doing? He’s almost tempted to go check, but he’s pretty sure the nurse must notice. Nobody goes anywhere around here without _somebody_ noticing. Which is unfortunate for whenever Connor tries to steal away and have a private meltdown. But oh no! You can’t try and have any privacy here.  
  
Having a breakdown? Nurse to watch you. Showering? Nurse watching you. Taking a shit? You guessed it - _nurse._  
  
It makes him feel just the more contemptment for the staff. He knows it’s misplaced, really - he does. But he can’t stop the surge of red-hot anger that swamps him anytime he spots one of them. When Artistic Nurse comes to a stop beside him she holds the marker bucket out, raising an eyebrow at him. _Case in point_ \- he rolls his own eyes at her, dropping both his and Evan’s markers into the box.  
  
Next she holds up a trash can, and Connor doesn’t even hesitate before tossing his own drawing into it. He does, however, keep her from taking Evan’s picture, because it’s not either of their places to decide what happens to it, and he doesn’t want to be _entirely_ a dick. When she sighs heavily and moves on Connor, looks at the picture, trying to figure out _where the fuck he’s going to keep it._ It’s not like he’s exactly got a notebook or big enough pockets.  
  
He doesn’t want to roll it up because it makes the paper bend funny, and folding it causes wrinkles. Connor pushes his hair up out of his face roughly, huffing a breath. Whatever. He’ll just - he can just carry it. Put it back in their room on his way to… Connor squints. What was it again he has next? Pursing his lips he tries to remember what they do on tuesdays after art. On wednesday they go to I Wanna Die therapy, and thursday Connor’s got drug therapy… oh!

Right, group. Ugh. Great. His favorite.  
  
Connor stands, not waiting for the clock to hit exactly the time for him to head to the next class. If he wants to drop the picture off beforehand and avoid getting near people then he’s got to leave early. Though it’s not like it’s a problem for him. Anything to get out of the art room. Tiffany gives him another wave as he makes his way to the door and Connor pointedly ignores her, fighting the urge to put his hair up.

Sometimes it just gets too much, too much stimulation, and he puts it up - but he can’t, because they only give you one hairband each and Connor had snapped his in half on the fifth night trying to cut off circulation to his hand.  
  
It… hadn’t been the best escape _or_ suicide plan, but he’d been in the throngs of withdrawal from nicotine, making everything sharp and too much, and his head had been hurting, and he’d _really_ wanted to kill himself.  
  
Connor tenses a little at the memory of the band snapping, and the pain and agony it caused him, and how long he’d fucking _cried_ after that. He hated crying. It made him feel weak and broken, needing _help_ which he didn’t.  
  
And when you cry people try and help you and - ugh, that whole night had been a mess. He’s grateful that he hadn’t had a roommate then, because he’s not really sure what he’d have done. Probably lashed out at them in not-so helpful ways.  
  
He kept trying to get it across to the nurses and shrinks that when he had an episode people needed to _stay the hell away from him_ or else they might get hurt, and he can’t really control himself when he’s like that. But none of them had listened, hence the punched nurse. Connor pushes his door open with a grunt, moving over to Evan’s side of the room. He blinks, noticing the new books and notebook that hadn’t been there before.  
  
There’s even a book that Connor’s not read. Maybe he can steal it for a little while. _Or ask to borrow it like a normal fucking person, you nutjob._ Connor frowns, dropping the drawing on top of the book pile, turning on his heel and making his way down to group therapy. It’s on the opposite side of the building from where he’d just been, and his legs ache a little by the time it’s in his sights.  
  
A strand of hair falls down into his face and he winces, glaring at it heatedly. Without stopping Connor takes his hands out of his pockets and aggressively pushes at his bangs, trying to get his hair off his face.  
  
_Stupid fucking hair,_ he thinks, clenching his teeth together so hard it hurts. But he’s so distracted by getting his _god damn_ hair out of his eyes he doesn’t notice the other person in front of him until he's already running full-bodily into them.  
  
Connor stumbles, cursing as he trips and only just manages to catch himself on the wall. He turns his head up with a snarl, fully ready to go _full Murphy_ on the _dumbass_ who’d just been standing there in the fucking _hall,_ but only just manages to stop himself. Because. He’d ran into a very flustered looking Evan. Connor tries his best to stamp down the anger that’s grown in him, but it’s hard on normal days, and today he hadn’t really been feeling his normal self.  
  
Which, granted, wasn’t the normal normal. He still felt like shit on good days. So instead he takes his anger out on his arm, digging his nails into the stitches and _squeezing_ so hard he’s almost sure he’s going to open them again.  
  
“Hi, Evan.” Is all Connor says, his words coming out muffled through his teeth. Evan jumps when he speaks, and then he’s diverting his attention and fumbling with another fucking peice of paper. Evan’s eyes are going over the hallway quickly like he’s looking for something. That spikes Connor’s interest a little bit.

“Uhm, hey Connor. S-Sorry, for running into - into you. I wasn’t paying attention -” _You_ weren’t paying attention? “- and I think I’m lost? I was trying to get back to the art room, but I took a wrong t-turn, and now I’m here and - I don’t know where _h-here_ is.” Connor lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a split second.  
  
_Breathe._

“Yeah, you’re a ways away from the art room. But it’s whatever, we’re done with art now.” He lets go of his arm, wincing as it stings from the shift in pressure. “Onto the next therapy.”

“O-Oh.” Evan says, going white as he glances back down at his paper. It’s… almost funny, and just a little bit cute, but Connor tosses that line of thought out of his head as soon as it shows up. Because no thanks.  
  
He leans over, trying to get a glimpse of Evan’s page without _actually_ looking like he’s trying to do that. He can’t see anything though, so he pulls back and clears his throat, looking at his fingernails like they’re the most goddamn interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“What - what do you have next? I can point you in the right direction?” Connor offers, tone coming off bored instead of apologetic like he’d been going for. He _had_ been  the one to run into Evan, not the other way around, even though Evan seems to really want to take the blame for it. Evan flounders for a moment, looking startled and a little confused, before he turns down to his page, mouth snapping shut.

“Uhm,” He starts, “it’s - it’s group therapy?” Evan holds his paper out for Connor, like he’s expecting him to take and look for himself. Which - of course he takes it, he doesn’t know what else to do. He checks the page, making sure Evan’s got the date right. Yep, group therapy. Nice.  
  
This should be easy - no unnecessarily convoluted instructions on where to go, no having to try and explain it to someone he’s not sure would get it on the first try, but is too scared to ask Connor to repeat anything. Connor wants to say something like, ‘calm down, you’re fine, I know where you are’ but he can’t seem to get his brain and his mouth to agree on anything, so what comes out is,  
  
“Same here. C’mon. I’ll lead the way.” It feels cheesy and lame as _fuck_ the second it’s out of his mouth, and Connor mentally hits himself. But luckily Even either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, nodding and thanking him quickly - four times.  
  
It was almost as bad as his whole apologizing schtick. Why was this kid so polite to everyone? Was it, like, some kind of code of conduct? _Had Evan ever even cussed?_ The image of Evan saying fuck both amuses and confuses him, and he has to stifle a laugh against his hand, covering it up with a cough.  
  
And of _course_ Evan has to go and fucking say, ‘bless you’, to a fucking _cough, for fucks sake._ Connor’s about fifty-three percent sure that Evan’s here because of his inability to perform normal social interactions correctly at this point.  
  
Connor blanches suddenly as he sees a small, red bloom forming on his wrist. _Shit._  
  
He wraps his hand around it, covering it as fast as he can. _Fuck. Shit, fuck, son of a_ bitch. _He hopes to god he hasn’t busted open a stitch._  
  
He’ll just - he’ll just keep his hand on his wrist until he can check it over and go to the med-room to get new bandages. _He’ll be fine._  
  
Evan didn’t notice, and nobody else will if he can just keep his _fucking wrist covered._  
  
It’ll be easy.


	6. Friendly Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> connor makes a friend and gets angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings in case it wasn't clear: Connor has a pretty big freak out in this chapter. Staff comes in to contain him so he doesn't hurt himself or others. They restrain him. Be wary.

It’s not going to be easy. Connor realises that the second he walks into the room and looks down at his arm. He’s definitely opened a stitch, could tell by the way blood had started to darken and spread down his arm, turning the bandages red. He stares at it for a moment too long, fixated on the change in color, but then Evan passes beside him and Connor snaps out of it and covers it up again.   
  
Nobody's here besides them yet, the chairs empty - he doesn't even see the nurse yet. Connor stands, unmoving, as he waits for Evan to pick a place to sit. He doesn't wanna be too close to him, can't let Evan see what he's done to himself.  But Evan makes no move to sit down, hovering at the edge of the circle of chairs, and it takes a full minute for Connor to realize that Evan’s waiting for _ him  _ to sit down, first. Because of course he is.   
  
Evan makes a movement like he wants to scratch at his neck, but breaks it off halfway and drops his hand on his shoulder. He’s worrying his lip between his teeth and is bleeding awkwardness off him in waves. Connor sighs heavily through his ever rising panic, and steals himself long enough to sit, back to the nurse who’s puttering away across the room.   
  
God, his arm hurts. Stings, sharp and biting, and he wants to look at it - see the damage he’s managed to do to himself, but he knows if he did Evan would see, and then he’d freak out and that’d make _ Connor  _ freak out and - it’d just be a whole, unwanted mess. Besides it’ll… probably stop bleeding soon.   
  
He’s putting pressure on it - it was probably only one stitch that’d come loose, nothing to worry about. Evan shuffles over, stuttering in his movements, and - he sits right next to Connor. Connor stiffens, shifting so he can tuck his arm into his stomach, out of view. Evan’s not looking at him though, thankfully, because Connor’s not really subtle on good days.   
  
Instead Evan’s staring at the floor like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. And Connor’s staring at Evan like _ he’s  _ the most interesting thing in the world, like the freak he is, and he bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to look away.   
  
Doesn’t say anything even though all of him is buzzing with the silence of the room, aching to break it. But if he speaks he’ll either be a dick, or weird, and neither of those are particularly appealing, so he keeps his mouth shut. So they end up just sitting there in silence until two more kids come in, talking among themselves a little too loudly for Connor’s taste.   
  
It’s a blond guy and a short brunette, and they’re laughing over something he doesn’t care about - but it puts him even more on edge and he squeezes his arm tightly. The nurse, who doesn’t move from the other side of the room, shifts her body so she can speak to them.    
  
“Tim, Beck, good to see you today. How are you?” She’s one of the ‘nicer’ nurses. ‘Nicer’ because she at least tries to act helpful - but it feels more like she’s just sugar coating how fucked over everyone in here is, which is stupid, and Connor resents her for it.   
  
Then again, he doesn’t really like any of the nurses or doctors here, so it’s really not that surprising. The two boys and her exchange pleasantries, before they sit directly across from Connor and Evan, ignoring them entirely. They’re too caught up in their world to care about anyone or anything else. Thankfully.   
  
Connor’s arm feels… wet. The nurse seems to just now spot them, and she takes a few steps towards them - _ stopstopstop  _ \- before resting a few feet away, waving to Evan like he’s a fucking child.    
  
“Hi there! I’ve not seen you before? What’s your name?” She asks, gently - like Evan will cry if she doesn’t, and honestly from the way Evan stutters it sounds like he just might. Connor shifts his eyes to Evan and frowns.   
  
The longer this conversation goes on, the higher the chance the nurse might _ see  _ and that’s what he’s trying to avoid here. He gives Evan a few more tries before he grunts and interrupts him.   
  
“Evan. His name is Evan. He’s new.” Connor bites out, sounding as tightly drawn and worn out as he is. The nurse blinks before a broad smile stretches over her face, and she claps her hands. Who does that?    
  
“Oh, what a lovely name! Well, welcome, Evan. I hope you find everything comfortable, here.” Then, turning to Connor now,   
  
“I’m glad you’ve made a friend, Connor!” Connor’s face twists up in an instinctive snarl and he snaps his head up.    
  
“He’s not my -” Connor starts, then hesitates. They’re not friends. Connor doesn’t have friends. But he’s worried that if he says this it’ll start the whole ‘you need friends to come out of your shell, dear’ conversation again, and he _ hates  _ that conversation. Connor grunts. “- Whatever. Fine. Friends. Let’s go with that.” The nurse giggles and walks away, going back to whatever the fuck she was doing before. After she’s out of hearing range, Connor turns back to Evan - who’s got a sort of dopey, surprised expression on his face.    
  
“We’re not friends. But her and all the other doctors don’t need to know that. It’ll make both our lives easier if you just play along, okay?” Evan nods, his mouth dropping open to respond but he stops short, eyes turning downward. His brow crinkles the same time Connor curses and covers his arm up even more.    
  
“C-Connor, your _ arm. _ ” Evan sounds downright horrified and Connor’s feeding on it, apparently, because now panic is starting back up in him - renewed and stronger than ever. Shit. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. How did Evan even notice? Connor had his arm covered this entire time.    
  
“Sshh! Shut _ up,  _ for fucks sake. Do you  _ want  _ her to hear you?” Connor casts his eyes behind him at the nurse for emphasis, but Evan just looks even more aghast now. God. This is great. Perfect. Of course he’d go and fucking break the goddamn new kid on his first day.    
  
“What? What - what do you mean, ‘don’t want her to hear’? You’re _ bleeding!  _ O-Oh my g-god, you’re  _ bleeding. _ ” Evan’s breathing is picking up and he’s flapping his hands in distress, and this isn’t what Connor wanted. He doesn’t know how to deal with this - is he having a panic attack? Over blood?   
  
Connor’s not seen someone _ else  _ have a panic attack, and can hardly notice it in himself, let alone someone else. Even if Evan is having one, he’s got no idea what he’s supposed to do to help him. Evan clutches his chest, a wheezing, broken inhale punching through his chest.   
  
Connor can’t breathe now either, he doesn’t know what to do - he just wanted to take care of his wounds by himself! He didn’t want to send Evan into a fucking panic attack! The nurse is coming over to them now, alerted that something's wrong by Evan’s frantic breathing and Connor just needs him to shut _ up.  _ It’s  _ fine,  _ he’s  _ fine,  _ nothing is  _ wrong  _ and why can’t everyone just fucking shut up and listen to him?    
  
“Evan, I’m going to need to to take deep, slow breaths. Can you tell me whats wrong?”    
  
“He - he’s - _ blood. _ ” Evan points at Connor,  _ right at him, why would he  _ do  _ that.  _   
  
“Shut up! Fuck!” Connor shouts, standing up so fast that his chair crashes to the ground, and the two boys across the room look as scared as Evan does. _ Great. Perfect. That’s just what he wanted.  _ “Just shut up, Evan! There’s no blood, everything is fine, okay!” Oh, everything is most assuredly  _ not  _ fine and the nurse knows this. She grabs a com that’s attached to - a necklace? Talking into it.    
  
“I’m going to need some help in here.” Shit. _ Shitshitshitshitshit.  _ Connor rushes over, he can fix this. She doesn’t need to get help. He’s fine. He’s not even doing anything.   
  
“Hey, okay, look? See? It’s just a little blood, I’m fine, I’m sorry, okay?” He reaches out his arm, his hurt arm, and tries to touch Evan’s shoulder but the nurse grabs Evan and pulls him away before he can. She’s looking at Connor like he’s going to _ hurt  _ Evan. Connor growls.  
  
He’s so tired of seeing people look at him like that. He’s not going to _ hurt  _ people. He’s angry - yeah, okay, he’s angry now - but he’s not going to fucking… what? Beat the shit out of Evan for worrying over him? Even if it  _ was  _ fucking misplaced. Because he’s  _ fine.  _   
  
“What? What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m not going to _ hurt  _ him, I’m showing him - look! A stitch just came loose, okay!?” God, everything feels too much. It’s too tight, and no one’s  _ listening  _ to him - why won’t they  _ listen  _ to him? Connor moves forwards again, trying to grab Evan - he just has to  _ show  _ him - but the nurse pulls away again.   
  
She actually looks scared. Evan is just hyperventilating. He can hear footsteps coming fast behind him and doesn’t even have time to turn before there’s strong arms wrapping around him - under his arms - and picking him up. Connor screams, kicking his legs. He wasn’t _ even doing anything.  _   
  
“Let go of me, I’m _ fine!  _ I haven’t fucking done anything!” Connor’s voice cracks on the last syllable, pushing hard at the arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He’s not making a scene - he was just trying to get Evan to shut up, to show him he  _ was fine.  _ He doesn't need help. The bleeding will stop.    
  
  
“Calm down!” Comes a voice - one of the ‘helpers’ that came in to _ take care of the problem child.  _ Why won’t anyone listen to him? He  _ is  _ calm, but them yelling at him and fucking  _ picking him up  _ is making it worse, so now he’s not calm. Can’t they just leave him alone?  __ Fuck.   
  
He can’t see through an angry haze now, and he reels his arm back and elbows the man holding him full strength. The man grunts, curses, and Connor fall to the ground as he’s dropped. He lands hard, but he scrambles away from them -  _ just fucking leave him alone  _ \- crawling as fast as he can away.   
  
His arm aches in protest but he ignores it. Someone grabs his ankle and drags him back, and he screams out again, kicking. But it’s too late, someone else is grabbing Connor’s torso and now he’s being lifted again - someone's got his upper body, someone else has his legs, and they’re walking him out of the room.   
  
Angry, hot tears are streaming down Connor’s face. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he knows this is just because he was spiraling. He knows what he’s doing right now is irrational and if he’d just calmed down and let them take him away it would have been fine - but he’s not rational right now, so he kicks and tries his damnedest to get away.   
  
All he can think of is how _ humiliating  _ this is, and how he’s gone and made a fool of himself. What would his  __ father  think? 


End file.
